Chapter One: The Man Who Passed Our Gate
I remember the first day I truly saw him. Many men passed through Shunem—merchants carrying dyed cloth from Tyre, soldiers on their way to Jezreel, peddlers with cracked voices sing-calling their wares, even the occasional scribe with ink on his fingers and dust in his beard—but none of them walked like him. There was a quietness to the Prophet Elisha, a stillness that could not be learned or copied. It was the stillness of someone who had wrestled with storms and learned their language; of someone who walked with One whom the rest of us feared to even think about for too long.
At first, he didn't notice me. Why would he? I was simply a woman standing in the courtyard of her own house, rinsing grain, trying to ignore the tightening ache inside me—the ache that came every month and left me empty, always empty. I had long grown out of tears for children I did not have. I was thirty-nine, and such things were for younger women.
But on that day he paused near the gate as one pauses before a familiar well whose water had refreshed them before. My house was not a well, but perhaps my heart was parched enough for two. He was traveling with Gehazi, his servant. Dust coated their clothes, but their eyes were keen. I greeted them with the respectful warmth we were taught to show prophets, neither too familiar nor too distant.
"My lord, if it pleases you, take a little food before continuing your journey."
He lifted his eyes to me. That was the moment something shifted. Not a miracle, not a prophecy, but a recognition—as though God had whispered my name into his ear and he had heard it. He accepted. I brought them bread, figs, and lentils, and though Elisha ate little, his gratitude felt heavy enough to tip the scales of my day from ordinary to significant. When he rose to leave, I felt an unexpected urgency.
"Come again whenever you pass this way," I said, though the words came out too quickly, too boldly for a woman of my standing.
"My home is open to you."
Elisha nodded once. There was something in his eyes—gentle, knowing, unsettling.
That evening, my husband Eliab was seated under the olive tree, mending a wooden yoke. He was a good man, older than I, steady, practical. He loved the earth more easily than he loved people, and he loved silence most of all. His hands were strong, though his hair was fading into grey. We had tried for years—since I was sixteen—to have children, but heaven had remained shut toward us.
"Eliab," I began, wiping my hands on my tunic. "The Prophet Elisha passed by today." "Mmm."
His answer was not a refusal, but neither was it an invitation.
"He will pass often," I continued gently. "He travels between Samaria, Carmel, and the Jordan. I… I wish us to make him a small chamber. On the roof. A place where he may rest when he comes."
The silence that followed felt like the waiting between lightning and thunder.
Finally, he said, "If you wish it, Yael, build it."
There was no joy or interest in his voice, but neither was there resistance. And I knew him well enough to know that this was permission—and that in our marriage, permission was often the closest thing to affection I received.
So, the chamber was built: a simple upper room with whitewashed walls, a small bed, a stool, a lamp, and a table. I arranged it with a strange tenderness, as though hosting a prophet required some sort of purity of intention. Every time I smoothed the linens, I felt the ache inside me whisper, at least here, I can give something.
It was not long before Elisha came again, and again, and again. The room became his place of rest, and somehow, his presence eased the heaviness that lived in the corners of my house. One afternoon, after he had returned from the fields blessing several homes devastated by the drought, Gehazi came down the outer steps calling for me.
"The prophet requests you," he said with his usual clipped manner.
My stomach tightened. I climbed the steps and stood in the doorway of the chamber. Elisha was seated at the small table, his hands folded, his eyes searching.
"You have shown us great kindness," he began. "Tell me—what can be done for you? Shall I speak to the king for you? Or to the commander of the army?"
I laughed softly, shaking my head.
"My lord, I live among my own people. I need nothing."
He turned to Gehazi, who whispered something I could not hear. Elisha's eyes returned to me, gentler than before.
"You have no son," he said. "And your husband is old."
The words struck like a blow to my chest. I held my breath, refusing to let the old wound open.
"My lord," I whispered, "please… do not deceive your servant."
He stood then, walked toward me, and spoke with the authority of thunder hidden behind clouds.
"About this time next year, you will hold a son in your arms."
My heart froze. A secret trembled at my lips, but I swallowed it down. Eliab would never accept this. We had tried for decades. He believed the fault lay with me—and perhaps it did. If I suddenly conceived, he would not see it as blessing, but betrayal. Men who are wounded in hope often turn their wounds into suspicion.
"If God wills," I murmured, though inside me a whirlwind rose.
I bowed and withdrew quickly, clutching my shawl around me like armor. In the courtyard, I pressed my face into my palms. I had not asked for this. I had not wanted this. I had begged God long ago to heal me of wanting. I was content—or at least numb. But Elisha's words had reopened everything. And so, I kept his prophecy from Eliab. Not out of deceit, but out of fear—fear that he would see hope as an insult, not a miracle.
Weeks passed. Then months. And then one morning the world tilted beneath my feet. My body changed; my cycles stopped. The whisper of life stirred inside me—and terror followed. When I told Elisha, he only nodded sadly, as if he had heard my fear long before my words reached him.
"I did not want this," I confessed to him. "If the child is not my husband's… if he doubts…" My voice broke. "I pleaded with you not to deceive me."
"It is God who opens the womb," he answered softly. "Do not fear, Yael."
But I did fear. I dreaded Eliab's eyes. I dreaded the questions. And yet there was no hiding it; my belly grew, announcing the child with merciless certainty. When Eliab finally realized, he stood staring at me for a long time, unmoving, unreadable. Then suspicion settled upon his face like a slow, dark cloud.
"Elisha," he said quietly. "He has been in this house often."
"No," I whispered. "No, Eliab. Please."
But his eyes withdrew from me, shutting like gates.
That night he slept on the roof instead of beside me. The next morning, he did not speak a word. The day after, he avoided me. The third day, he looked at me with something sharper than mistrust—something like betrayal.
And so, the prophecy that should have been joy became a burden. I did not pray for the baby to live; I did not pray for the baby to die. I simply feared what his existence would cost me.
It was then, just when I needed him most, that Elisha stopped visiting. I heard he had gone to Mount Carmel to stay in seclusion. Gehazi passed through once but offered only curt greetings.
Days lengthened. Nights swallowed me whole. And inside me, the child grew—strong, persistent, relentless. Every kick felt like both a promise and a threat. Sometimes, alone in the courtyard, I pressed my hands to my belly and whispered,
"Little one, forgive me. I do not know how to love you."
And other times, I found myself trembling with a fierce longing to hold him, to see his face, to give him a name that would tell the world he was God's doing, not mine. But I did not know which of the two women inside me would be his mother: the one who feared him, or the one who ached for him. I only knew that neither would have a choice.